Fun With My Dream Boy

Dear Sillies,

I was pretty upset over Clark, so I did something I hadn't done in years. I dove back into the risky, sketchy, weird world of on-line dating. Yikes. Boy are there winners in that swamp. Take "James," for example. He seems and looks so perfectly dreamy. Only thing is, James input the wrong age by seven years. This made me suspect. Thus I had some fun with him (or a robot).

James: Your profile got my attention 😊 , I am 55 yrs old mistake on my age 😊 

(Note: Age says 62.) Work as a Senior Project Architect and a project coordinator who supports project managers on major projects. You do more projecting than a frat boy during pledge week, sweetie.Robyn: How is it that there was a mistake on your age, James? You can simply go into your profile, click on the pencil/edit icon, and change it. James: so what you do work ?

Robyn: Are you really that stupid that you can't figure out how to change your age on your profile, even though I gave you the simple instructions to do that? For work, I'm a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigations. 

James: Awww thanks . Have a mixed background and an interesting heritage ( Swedish and Italian). I enjoy the small things in life. Would be lovely to take this wonderful conversations ahead , please leave me with contact lets connect on the phone lol  

Robyn: Awww yes. I cannot wait to get ahead with you and check out your blue prints lol I don't like small things. I'm sure yours, being part Italian, is like a fat and long sausage. Call me at (415) 926-5818. * 

James: Awww thanks, would text you tomorrow

*That number is a San Francisco area number for ordering Viagra discreetly. You can thank me discreetly too. Wink.

Weirdest Breakup Ever, Clark part II

 My Dear Sillies,

   I don't usually cut to the chase. Instead, I cut out the chase. So I'll just tell you that Clark gave me one "installment," (I suspect it was 5.5 or 5.25 inches. I didn't take out my tape measure.)

   Quality-wise, the night was dreamy. He'd brought over dinner and drinks, we talked about past relationships and what we're looking for. A positive, thick tension thickened.  

   "What do you want to do now?" he asked.

   "I want to kiss you." 

   Things heated blissfully smoothly, and we slept well too. It was a wonderfully pleasant and pleasurable night. Clark checked in the following afternoon. 

   He made a salmon dinner for me the following weekend.

   Clark asked me questions, didn't interrupt my responses to tell me tediously boring factoids about himself, and I really, really liked him.

   As soon as he bit into the salmon, Clark felt sick. A few minutes later, I was politely, apologetically asked to leave.      

   What a disappointment.

   "How about if I bring you some homemade matzo ball soup?" I offered the next day. Good move, right? I'd win him over for sure. 

   My soup turned out great. Clark appreciated it so much that he bargained for potato latkes next. I agreed, with a playful (but serious) disclaimer, "That's going to be it for my Jewish dishes, though."

   The night arrived.

   "Mm, mm, these are great! Thanks for making them."

   "Well, truthfully, I used a mix. It's too easy," I grinned. "And I had to taste-test plenty of latkes for you."

   We moved to the couch after dinner. 

   He took my hand. "I planned for you to stay the night," Clark said stoically, "but you like me more than I like you." Okay? "I hate hurting people, so I want to keep dating without the sex."

   Say what? "What would that look like? We already crossed the line."

   "Yes, and it was wonderful. But I potentially want to see other people." You're hurting me so as to not hurt me by refusing to have sex again with me because the sex was wonderful and you assume that I have more feelings for you than you do for me? 

   "I think you're projecting stuff onto me," I shrugged. "Okay, then."

   I got up to retrieve my purse and the left-over latkes.

   "Why are you--? Okay, okay, yeah, you're NOT staying the night after that. I regret ever having sex with you in the first place." 

   Clark walked to his kitchen, retrieved a roll of aluminum foil from a drawer, and tore off a large piece. He very meticulously wrapped the left-over latkes in foil, then handed them to me.

   Damn straight, you don't get these!

   Numb, I took my other belongings and walked to the door. What do I say now? I turned to him. 

   "Well, have a good night," is all I could think to say, because I'm too nice like that. 

   He looked at me sadly, patronizingly. 

   I'm still hurt and perplexed over this non-super man. He probably should've just "ghosted" me, but I guess he really, really wanted potato latkes.   

Celibacy Breakage, Superman Look-alike

Dear Sillies,

The next man to have broken my celibacy streak looks like this: 

   Cute, right? A Clark Kent lookalike perhaps. My Superman? A super man, a great guy, a decent dweeb, or another numbskull? Let's find out...

   I was in my zone, riding the on-stage high that my comedic routines unexpectedly and occasionally deliver. My lines about, well, length and inches and stuff --um, "mathematical" measurements with a mostly male audience)-- reaped uproarious laughter. To my left, an adorable man and his lovely brunette friend, cheered giddily. 

   I commented on her good fortune, assuming they were a couple. Her expression told me "No, we're just friends. You just gave me an idea."

   After the show, as I chatted with other comics by the bar, this sweet lady introduced herself. "Hi, I'm Marla." We shook hands. "You were hilarious! Can I introduce you to my friend?" she asked.

   "That's nice of you. Sure."

   Marla walked me to Clark, who sat at a nearby table. 

   "Oh, I thought you were together."

   "No. We both teach at MLK Middle School." Cool, right?

   After the introductions, Clark sat with chest pressed out: "I can give you nine inches."  His smile, endearingly intoxicated. "But it'll be in three installments." 

   "Hey, a gal's not picky," I chuckled. "I mean, this gal isn't." 

   So naturally or not, I ended up driving Clark home. I mean, I couldn't let Clark drive drunk. Right? This proceeded more chatter, and Marla's assurance that he's not a creep. I could trust a lovely woman who's a teacher with a drunken male friend teacher, right? 

   Turned out, hours later, yeah, I could trust him. Myself? Not so much. It was very fun and naughty but not to-the-full-extreme-of-naughty. Clark repeatedly requested that I spend the night. 

   "My bed is really big, so our bodies won't touch at all," he bargained.

   The night ended with Clark's telling me it was up to me to contact him "since you're rejecting me," but I got the most flirtatious, drunkenly cute smile from him and meager wave "goodbye" (after a kiss and embrace too). 

   I called the next day.     ...to be continued. I know, I'm such a tease.

A Break from Celibacy, Molly and Huey

 Dear Sillies,

   I confess, I've been holding out. Well, not true. Err, I'm not spreading it. Info, that is. I haven't kept you satisfied, not at all. I'm so sorry. 

   Truth is I've been on a nice long break from celibacy. Not because of a man, though. Because of several men. Not at once. Promise, but that's a nice thought. How caring of you!   

   I didn't want to write about any of it. It's hard. Well, not that hard, hard enough. You know? Oy. Lemme just tell you about Huey. 

   The damn "shelter in place" had been going on for about half a year. Loneliness spiked. So I went to a comedy show, where I, well, performed, and was invited to a party afterward.

   The man who invited me is a hysterical comic who's very suave and hot. 

   "I don't do drugs or drink at all," I told Hottie.

   Hottie replied "It doesn't matter, Robyn" and gave me the details.

   There I sat in the midst of a hallucinating drug trip, sober. The crowd was kind and respectful of my--ahem--puritan ways. 

   A man to my right, someone from that circuit who'd intrigued me, struck up discourse about how comedy's a remedy for depression. 

   He enticed me with his sincerity and warm smile. His belly's huge, and I picked up on a sweet innocence about him (despite the fact that he and everyone but me was drugged out). We'll call him Huey.

   "Hey, what's your situation, pretty lady?" 

   I told Huey it was my first fun night since pre-COVID and I'm  single. He stroked my arm as we talked. It felt nice. Human touch -- sigh. It'd been too long. I reciprocated.

   Huey moved in for a kiss, and then more kissing. That felt nicer.

   Partiers came in and out of the room: "You guys are cute!" "You can go outside for privacy" "Good stuff, huh? I see it's working!" A bit awkward, but I'm a fan of that molly thing. (Never did any drugs or smoking whatsoever. I swear, but I did drink a lot of girlie drinks back in the day, and I do swear like a drunken sailor lost at sea.)

   Huey messaged me the next morn: "so sorry for last night hope I didn't make you feel bad." 

                                      to be continued...

Date by Telegram? Nincompooptitude

Dear Sillies,
    What happened to the long lost art of...talk? Seriously, men my age (50 plus) -- you grew up with the coil wrapped around your fingers as you chatted on the phone -- did you not? Men of all ages: Congratulations! You can write "hey"! That's good for nothing. Hint: The "hey" that's for horses has an "a" not "e" in it.
   Yeah, I'm frustrated. I've had some fun* with male prospects in the past months. But when it comes to follow through, their girthy ineptitude shows.   *=kissy-kissy, no nookie-nookie.
                    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
   We'll call this man Paul Revere. Paul and I had fun* at a Halloween party. Paul put my number in his smart phone. He even tossed out a possible New Year's date, so I'm pretty sure he was interested. He seemed to be a nice, nerdy type. 
   But there was no next-day phone-call.
   Two days later, this FB correspondence ensued:
  
   "I tried to text you. Bad signal. I don't think you got it."
   "Drats. No worries. It was fun to meet you. I hope to see you again soon."
   "Are you free this weekend?"
   "Not Friday. Saturday, yes."
   No message until Sunday from Paul.
   "Sorry to keep you hanging. I couldn't make it. Brunch now to talk about the logistics of a proper date?"
   "Right now? No, I can't, catching up on lots of things. Thanks."
   "How about Wed?" You want to marry me? You can't even talk to me! He sends me a blurb about a music event on Wednesday.
   "Well, I've other things planned that night, but maybe we can meet afterwards, since I'll be a few doors down from the show."
   "Sounds great. Here's my land line 28675309. Other phone is 18675309. Land line#" (again for emphasis).
   "Okay. You have my number."
   "If you can't reach me, Western Union telegraph works in a pinch."

   "Ha! I'll send smoke signals."
   After I wrote this, I realized that perhaps he wasn't trying for humor. I googled the telegram/telegraph. Guess what, my dears? It still exists!
  Furthermore, the shortest telegraphic exchange is attributed to Oscar Wilde. Living in Paris, he is supposed to have cabled his publisher in London to see how how his new book was doing. The telegram simply read “?” to which the reply cabled back was "!" 

I wrote to Revere again:
   "I thought you were kidding about Western Union. I'm not up for that. This is taking too much work. Best of luck to you."

   Sigh. One if by land, two if by sea, three if I shalt ne'er see you again, Mr. Revere. 
             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Be well, safe, and good to you!
Love.

A Human Date of Late to Hate

   A few weeks ago, a sudden outpouring of men were in the picture. Herb seemed my best prospect. He thoroughly charmed me. "A pretty person like you often has a beautiful soul." A winning line, right? 
   Even better, we were both pleased upon meeting in-person. Dinner was great. We had friendly discourse about work, his child, my writing. Unlike other dates, Herb picked up the bill without hesitation.
   And then, better still, he invited me to his place. "I'll play music for you," he said. Herb sings and plays guitar. 
   His shiny black guitar across his lap, Herb sang soft familiar tunes. I sat entranced, falling more deeply with each note. After a handful of John Denver, Celine Dione, and others' music, Herb played Josh Groban's "You Raise Me Up." 
   All the while, I envisioned Herb and I walking across stormy seas hand in hand. Kinda like a "come to Jesus" moment - only with this little Jewish lady and my Herb.
   The song ended, though, and my date set down his guitar. "I'm done." He dabbed his eyes with the backs of his hands.  "I feel too sad now. That song was for my ex-girlfriend. She died of a drug overdose."
   Well we didn't see that one coming, did we?
   "This" --he pointed at his guitar-- "this is my priority. And I don't want a bad reputation."
   Because anyone who dates me develops a bad reputation? No dude, I raise them up, until it's over, at which point they plummet as low as they could be.

   Needless to say, I put my jacket on and grabbed my purse. Only twenty minutes after Herb began to serenade me, err, his dead ex-girlfriend, the date was over.
   Herb gestured towards his front door.
   "You have a GPS to get home, right?"
   "Yeah, I have a GPS."  But your dead ex-girlfriend could raise me home faster, I assume.

    At my car door, Herb on the opposite side of my car, I said "Thank you."  I didn't know what else to say.
   Of course, now I have all sorts of words for him.